Church Friendships

The other evening over dinner, my brother-in-law made the observation that their friendships at the church they once attended, must have been based primarily on church affiliation. Because outside of church reference, there was not the give and take of normal friendship development. And it was not a case of not trying.

This little profundity has stayed with me as something like an explanation of what others have experienced since moving away from a long attended church.

The realization that friendships, taken as something reasonably resilient, may only be church deep, is perhaps one shadow side of an otherwise functioning church.

This is not a comment on the vagaries of human faithfulness and reliability. We all share and carry degrees of infidelity. All of us tend to be busy and lazy at the same moment. As well, the tenuousness of “church-friendships,” if that’s what it is, is not everyone’s experience.

However there does seem to be some shared experience and I am curious as to how broad it may be. Many of us who have or had attended church for sometime, have known people in apparently long and deep friendships, where one person, because of a new direction taken by the church, or an attraction to something perceived as a larger or more genuine Christian experience, has left their church for another one, and as a result the friendship was lost; occasionally even becoming antagonistic. And, at the same time, a friendship, that was outside of church, held without any difficulty.

As a localized phenomenon, this is troubling enough. But indications are that it extends farther across the Christian church.

Of course it’s not fair to hold the church responsible for psychological and relational ills we bring to it. But there seems, beyond this, something about the church that creates or contributes to a certain dysfunction. And questions remain.

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Is the church more body-cast than incubator? That is, does the church act as a presiding system instead of a nurturing facility which would allow relationships to evolve more naturally? This “more naturally” is full of its own complexities of course but it is easily distinguished from what might be seen as the “Christian church layer.”

A layer is something on the outside. It never becomes a proper graft, never grows into the tissue, never becomes the strength and sinew of friendship. This layer exists as a band, a bandage, a cinch, a clamp, always external, never organic or internal. So when a few miles of geography get in the way the cord gives out. Or when a journeyer begins to question church dogma and doctrine, the band frays and breaks. Or when both of these things happen, the tie is cut.

Why? What in the nature of church might create or sustain this sort of sallowness? Does the culture of church, particularly the “sharing,” “friendship evangelism,” or seeker sensitive” type of church impede opportunities for connecting on broader levels?

Is all the requisite activity of these churches an impediment to forming relationships? Does a churches programmatic array become a substitute for relational depth. And does this allow us to skim the surface, keeping ourselves comfortable and dry?

As well, is it possible that churches that never wrestle with hard issues, under the cover of simply “preaching the gospel,” can only cultivate acquaintance? Is it possible that churches that keep all emotional response unruffled, unless it’s of a charismatic variety, can only maintain familiarity and not intimacy? Isn’t soul-ship, that is, the deeper connections, only developed in the rougher waters? And is anything outside of this simply church-life, not life-life?

I know that on many levels this observation is deficient. It’s just that it’s sufficient and ubiquitous enough to warrant at least one post.

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Resentment, disarmed hearts, and the dew point of peace

I’ve wondered sometimes, how much I contribute to keeping war alive. Does the steam of my half-conscious half-baked desires rise and add to the ethane that war breathes? Does war seep out of our my pours in my grasping after never-enough. Do I breath war into the atmosphere through my impatience; impatience that can set me off envisaging the infliction of wounds on the head of some mere place-stealer.

And what about resentment? How free am I from this time bomb?

Can I liberate myself from resentment without the sense that I am absolving someone who harmed me? A sidestep that misdirects energy and creates no new possibility. Can I keep an experience of being hurt, slighted, snubbed, overlooked or worse, from hardening into resentment? which will always lead to some kind of retaliation.

mideast_israel_palestiniansI’m convinced that resentment holds within itself any and all forms of conflict and the combustive capacity to set off all kinds of wars. And resentment always sustains wars, because while wars are fought by the living, or at least, the still existing, it’s the dead on each side that fuel them.

But this much I’ve contemplated and now believe. That when the dry vapours of resentment, anger and ill intent become saturated by disarmed hearts, peace will condense and rain down and wash over our faces.

This is the dew point of peace. Enough disarmed hearts to soak and quench resentment and hatred.

From where will these hearts come? How do we demilitarize our hearts to where they are innocent of retaliation and free of resentment?

Imagine the imagination of a disarmed heart. The kind of imagination that sees possibility in laying weapons aside, that sees defeat as being an opening, that understands that being killed is not nearly the final word.

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What would a world without war look like?

Life is not Jeopardy. We do need the question first. And we need the right question, to arrive at an answer. And the question is: What would a world without war look like? (This is a question Jesuit priest John Dear asks all the time, and some of the following thoughts are inspired by him.)

Thing is, we need to envision a world without war in order to move towards peace.

bombwashing Our eyes, so accustomed to violence, our imaginations, dull to all possibilities except new ways to exterminate, and our vision of peace, as coming only through redemptive violence, all this is self-annihilation.

Our survival, our salvation, is in a special kind of knowing blindness that only comes from staring into the radiance of peace. From this comes new sight.

Am I sounding like an old hippy? There’s more.

I’m reminded of John Lennon’s Imagine. Lennon’s point was that nothing changes without imagining the change. Peace, not simply the absence of war, needs to be imagined.

And now for the Christians… Ghandi said somewhere that Jesus was the most active practitioner of nonviolence in the history of the world and the only people who don’t know that Jesus was non-violent are Christians. And why is that? Because we still believe in a schizophrenic God of love and wrath, grace and sacrifice, mercy and retribution.

How about this? Violence, born of twisted mimetic desire–which is a way of saying you are less than me and anything you might be or have is at my disposal–is the root evil. Jesus came to release us of that. How then is it possible to be a Christian and support the Iraq war, any war, any violence, organized, state sponsored, whatever, and be a Jesus-follower at the same time?

Please tell me Franklin Graham, Charles Stanley, and possibly every other professor at the Dallas Theological Seminary, how else you read “I desire mercy not sacrifice.” Time we all “go and learn what this means.”